


so say you'll stay with me tonight

by lilithqueen



Category: Obsidian and Blood - Aliette de Bodard
Genre: Come Eating, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Acatl's day is long and trying, but then Teomitl walks him home. His night is much, much better.
Relationships: Acatl/Teomitl (Obsidian and Blood)





	so say you'll stay with me tonight

**Author's Note:**

> title: [walk me home - p!nk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQMBlFSu2QU)

Tizoc is—regrettably—still Emperor today. Acatl’s trying very hard not to let it bother him, but it’s hard not to when the man is coming up with plans for a grand new renovation of the Great Temple and he doesn’t dare bring up all the excellent magical reasons why it may not be a wonderful idea. (Aside from the risk of exposing Coyolxauhqui’s prison to moonlight if the support scaffolding is driven too deep, all the wards will have to be remade and thousands of sacrifices procured, and there’s always the chance of the boundaries weakening with their largest anchor disrupted. Instead of bringing any of this up, Quenami—whose _actual job this is_ —is smugly thinking only of his own prestige, which doesn’t help either the Fifth World or Acatl’s mood. Acamapichtli, of course, remains just this side of useless.)

It’s late by the time they get out of that meeting, and all he can think is that he does _not_ want to spend one more second within the palace walls. He wants his own house, and his own mat, and his—

Well. He wants _Teomitl._ In general he doesn’t want to be alone, but in _specific_ he wants Teomitl—wants to wrap his arms around him, hold him close, kiss that soft and smiling mouth. They haven’t put words on what they are to each other, they’ve made no promises, but Acatl knows his own heart well enough to tell when so, so much of it has been given over to someone else. His (lover? friend?) is somewhere in the palace, but he hasn’t seen him all day and he’s seriously debating the idea of going to look for him. Of finding him wherever he’s been spending his time, pulling him aside, telling him…

_I want you._

_I missed you._

_Come home with me._

The idea of _that_ makes his face heat. They’ve stolen plenty of time together, but never has Teomitl spent the night at his house. (He doesn’t count that time after Axayacatl’s death. He’d been _asleep_ for that, and also still so deep in denial that he wouldn’t have been able to find his way out with a tall ladder.) To do that now would be...well. His eyes have been opened, and he’s fairly sure they wouldn’t be spending too much time sleeping.

“Acatl!”

He jolts; he’s been so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear those impatient, beloved footfalls approaching from behind. Something in his heart clicks and settles into warm contentment as he turns around. “Teomitl,” he says, and adds—because it’s the truth—“I was just thinking about you.”

Teomitl doesn’t quite blush, but his smile goes measurably warmer around the edges. He looks good all in red and white, with gold earflares and a simple gold lip plug that draws Acatl’s eye to the curve of his lower lip. “And I was just looking for you. Are you all done for the day?”

“...Unless some emergency beckons, yes.” He really hopes it doesn’t. Duality, just give him _one_ night.

“I’m glad.” And Teomitl draws closer to walk in step with him, their hands almost brushing. “Heading home?”

He nods, and then takes a breath. “Walk with me?”

Teomitl beams, and somehow he falls even deeper in love. “Of course.”

They’re quiet for a while. Part of him is still on a low boil after spending so much time with Acamapichtli and Quenami, and he doesn’t want to ruin this pleasant stillness by unleashing his fury. Besides, walls in the palace always have ears, and he’s sure it would get back to Tizoc somehow. So instead he walks in silence, feeling the warmth of Teomitl’s body in step with his, and he thinks _oh, this is nice._ (It could be nicer. They could be holding hands. But they have to be discreet, still, and so he can’t risk it.)

 _(Gods,_ he wants to see Teomitl crowned.)

It’s not until they leave the palace that Teomitl says, “So. Tizoc’s still going ahead with his...refurbishment.”

Acatl grimaces. “Indeed.”

“Didn’t listen to any of the reasons why he shouldn’t.”

He bites his lip. “...I…”

Teomitl turns to look at him; at first he’s frowning, but then understanding dawns. “...I see.” He looks like he wants to say something else—probably something angry—but all he does is sigh, shaking his head. “I tried too, you know, but he’s only thinking of his legacy and not what it might do to us. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t say anything; he’d think we were conspiring against him.”

Acatl considers this. Looks at him.

Teomitl looks mildly offended. “I _did_ say I’d give him time.”

“You did.” And he slides his fingers against the back of Teomitl’s hand to show he’s not upset, nor holding a grudge. He’d meant it, after all, when he’d said there was no need for apologies between them. It has the desired effect, because Teomitl’s eyes grow warm and bright.

And then he leans in and murmurs, “Unless you’d rather I not.”

“Teomitl,” he huffs, but he can’t be mad. Teomitl’s smiling, after all, and it’s the one that means he’s not _entirely_ serious—that says yes, he might still kill his own brother on Acatl’s orders, but it’s far more important to him that Acatl has asked him _not_ to. “Please don’t.” After a moment’s thought he adds, “At least warn me and Mihmatini first when you do.”

Now Teomitl’s _really_ smiling, though it’s somewhat rueful. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. You know that.”

“I do.” He angles himself as he walks, so that they’re nearly touching, and lets the tenderness he feels color his voice. _I trust your words. I trust you. I know you, my heart._ And he’s suddenly more than mildly annoyed that they’re still in the Sacred Precinct, because the way Teomitl looks now—softly pleased, eyes shining—desperately makes him wish he could kiss him right here. If he were braver, he thinks he might even risk it; he knows where the shadows of the temple gates will hide them from prying eyes, and he knows how sweetly Teomitl presses against him when he’s pleased.

Though he says nothing, it must show on his face, because Teomitl takes advantage of the camouflage provided by their billowing cloaks to firmly lace their fingers together. His voice lowers, rich with promise. “We should eat dinner before we reach your place, shouldn’t we? Unless you want to cook. I hope you are; we’ll need our energy.”

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s blushing. “I. Um.”

“Well?”

“...I leave a pot of stew on the hearth in the morning.” It’s a habit he’s gotten into since Tizoc’s begun these building preparations; they often go long enough that he’s ravenous by the time they’re over, and utterly unwilling to expend any more brainpower on exactly how to fill his stomach. It’s hard to overcook stew, after all. “Though I don’t know if it will be to your taste—”

Teomitl smiles at him. “Acatl. You _know_ my feelings on your cooking.”

He finds himself smiling back. “I still think you flatter me far too much.”

Teomitl pokes his side teasingly. “And _I_ think you underestimate the effects of a meal made with care and devotion by a man I trust above all others in the Empire. I’d eat what you made if it came out as _charcoal.”_

“Well, hopefully this won’t be _that_ bad.” Honesty compels him to add, “It may be a bit spicy. I wasn’t expecting company when I put it all together.”

Teomitl huffs, “I can handle spice!”

He makes a mental note to serve plenty of flatbread on the side.

  
  


It’s not far to his home, and the stew—mostly beans and corn, with a long-simmering and very tough haunch of dog from an earlier sacrifice thrown in to cook until tender—is just about done when he takes it off the fire. Teomitl clearly wants to help, but after a moment’s searching forces him to realize he has no idea where Acatl keeps anything, he takes himself out to the courtyard with a terribly put-upon sigh. It’s adorable. Acatl wants to kiss his cheek.

So when he sets down their bowls, he does. Teomitl promptly blushes, which is so terribly endearing that Acatl has to kiss him again. On the mouth this time, which turns long and lingering before Teomitl slowly pulls away. “Mmhm. Not that I’m complaining, but what prompted this?”

He really only needs one hand to eat, so he’s free to settle the other at Teomitl’s waist and revel in the way the man nestles against his side. (It’s no longer surprising that Teomitl is so tactile, but it will always— _always_ —be delightful.) “...I missed you.”

Because he _had._ Every time Tizoc had opened his mouth, he’d thought _you are unworthy of your crown._ Every time Quenami had worn that supercilious smirk of his, he’d thought _Teomitl would never let you get away with that._ He’d felt himself alone, and he’d wanted his lover by his side. Now that he is, there’s something going soft and warm in Acatl’s chest. They’d definitely be kissing again if it wasn’t for the stew, which he knows won’t be nearly as good cold.

Teomitl presses a kiss to his cheek, which makes him blush in turn, but then he’s applying himself to his dinner. Acatl waits as he takes the first spoonful.

To give him credit, his beloved doesn’t flinch. But he _does_ turn red, and when Acatl hands him a piece of plain flatbread he shoves it into his mouth as though his life depends on it. When he can talk again, his voice is a little rough. “That’s—not bad _.”_ And then, ruefully, “I should have expected that.”

“Mm.” He thinks briefly of seeing whether there’s anything else he could serve, but he knows Teomitl will turn it down. Even now, his lover thinks his own limits are mere suggestions.

It’s a quiet meal. Teomitl settles more firmly against him as they eat, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, and the promise of it makes him shiver. _I won’t be suggesting he go home tonight,_ he thinks, and knows it for the truth. The silence between them feels good—feels _comfortable_ —but though he doesn’t want to spoil it, there’s something he knows he has to say.

The sun is setting, bathing them in twilight. Their bowls are scraped clean, even Teomitl’s. (With the aid, Acatl can’t help but notice, of several cups of water and _all_ of the flatbread.) Teomitl himself is resting his head on his shoulder, looking utterly content with his lot in life. Warm, calloused fingers are tracing slow circles on his thigh. Even the air feels peaceful, with just enough of a breeze to keep them cool but not enough to raise the dust. As Acatl takes a deep breath, he realizes he’s not afraid. Maybe he should be—maybe this is too much, he’s moving too quickly—but he isn’t. Not with his man by his side.

“I love you,” he whispers, and it comes out so quietly that at first he doesn’t think Teomitl’s heard him.

Then Teomitl smiles, soft as the dawn, and breathes, “I love you, too.”

Then they’re kissing again, and this time it’s much less sweet. There is _some_ restraint—while Teomitl’s not precisely shy, he’s well aware of Acatl’s vows—but it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world to be tumbled backwards on the mat, to have strong hands buried in his hair, to feel the heat and the faintest suggestion of teeth in each press of Teomitl’s mouth down his throat. And yet, for all that, there’s still a gentleness to it, because he’s loved. And better than that, he’s _respected._ If he asked Teomitl to stop, he knows he would.

He doesn’t think he’s going to ask Teomitl to stop. He arches into another kiss, letting his head fall back, and breathes, “We should...nnh...” Words fail him, because there’s a featherlight press of lips to his collarbone and it’s a lovely little spark of pleasure.

“Mm?”

He shivers in anticipation, seeing the warmth in his lover’s eyes. “Let’s go inside.” He swallows. “If you want to continue this.”

Teomitl pulls back a little to look at him. The smile on his face turns teasing. “Oh, I do. But it’s getting late, and you should sleep.”

He’s suddenly very, very aware of his lover’s weight on him—of the way they’re touching, pressed together from very nearly the waist downwards, and how the building heat in his blood is moving with purpose. He shifts, rolling his hips a fraction, and feels Teomitl twitch in response. “I’m not that tired.”

Teomitl grins, all wicked hope. “Want me to help you with that?”

He sucks in a breath. _I took vows,_ comes his first thought. But it’s followed fast by a second, stronger one— _I don’t care_. So instead of answering in words, he pulls Teomitl into a hungry, searing kiss.

He’s honestly not entirely clear on how they manage to get inside. While he’d be glad to kiss Teomitl forever, his lover is the sort of impatient man who comes up with _plans;_ they’re barely on his sleeping mat before Teomitl’s scattering their cloaks and working at the knots to their loincloths, letting his hands roam shamelessly over every inch of bare skin. Acatl’s not idle; though he might kill something for a light so he could at least _see_ the unveiled glory that is his naked lover, he’s free to map out the lay of the land with his palms.

And gods, but Teomitl melts into each touch. If he were the jaguar Acatl sometimes thinks of him as, he might even be purring. Experimentally he draws his nails down Teomitl’s back, and is rewarded when he moans into their kiss. “Mmm...”

Then there are warm, calloused fingers trailing down his chest, and he can’t quite muster up the ability to feel smug anymore when they find one nipple and start toying with it. “Oh, _gods,”_ he gasps—he hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive there, but Teomitl is very effectively proving him wrong. He’s been half-hard since the moment his loincloth hit the floor, and Teomitl’s hands are getting him the rest of the way there. It’s even better when Teomitl moves to straddle him, half so they can grind against each other and half so his free hand can skate down the plane of his stomach.

Their eyes meet, and Acatl feels himself flush at the look in Teomitl’s eyes, the one that says without words that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “You feel _perfect.”_

“Flatterer...mmm…” That one hand is sliding lower, shameless, and he wriggles a little to press their cocks together. He wishes again for light, but smoothing his hands over the solid muscles of his lover’s back and down over his frankly glorious ass will have to do. Teomitl must enjoy it, because his whole body trembles—and then Acatl’s being kissed, long and slow, and he arches with an utterly wanton groan.

“Love you,” Teomitl breathes when they pull apart. “Tell me how you want me to please you.” Acatl has to blush a little at that—it’s hardly as though Teomitl ought to need _instruction,_ when he’s so hard against him—but well, he _is_ asking. He’s owed an answer.

Still, saying it out loud makes him squirm. “...Touch me.” He rolls his hips, and his lover’s eyes spark fire. He doesn’t need to say anything else; Teomitl takes him in hand, and the friction that had been merely good builds into something he can fall into, something that sends pleasure coiling through his veins.

“Like this?” Teomitl’s setting a steady pace, fingers rippling; he needs his other hand to brace himself on the mat, bringing him in range to punctuate his words with a hungry mouth on Acatl’s collarbone. It scatters Acatl’s thoughts to the four winds; helpless, he scratches down Teomitl’s back again, and this time the vibrations of his lover’s moan sinks into his skin.

 _More,_ he thinks, and _yes._ He barely recognizes his own voice when it leaves his mouth. “Nngh, _yes_ —no, wait, wait, I want to—” It’s not a want but a physical need, bone-deep, that has him working his hand between them to wrap around both their cocks at once. Teomitl’s roughly the same size but a little thicker, all rock-hard heat under his palm, and when he squeezes it pulls the most amazingly wrecked noise out of him.

“ _Oh,”_ Teomitl gasps. In the darkness, his eyes are wide with stunned hunger; his hips shudder, rocking in unconscious little circles like he’s not sure whether he should be letting Acatl set the pace or not.

“Have to feel you,” he pants. All that stroking had been pleasurable, yes, but he needs to feel it _properly_ when Teomitl falls apart against him, under his hand, sliding past his own cock with each thrust. He wonders, briefly, how it would feel with Teomitl inside him—but then Teomitl’s hand leaves his shaft to slide lower, and the first purposeful caress to his balls makes him whine.

“Hah.” It’s more of a gasp than anything else; even the attempt at a self-satisfied smirk is erased in the next instant, because Acatl leans in to nip at his throat and grinds his hips up, a firm stroke making their cocks pulse in his grip. “Gods, keep doing that—”

“Mmm,” he hums against his lover’s skin. “Is _this_ how you like it?” There aren’t words for the feelings coursing through him, lust and the mounting lightning of his own pleasure mingling with a fierce joy that _he’s_ the one doing this for Teomitl, that it’s _his_ mouth and hands that are pulling such sweet sounds from his lover. _A little more,_ he thinks. _A little more. I need to see your face._

He gets his wish a moment later; no doubt Teomitl has a warrior’s stamina, but it can’t last against the way Acatl’s handling him. He gets increasingly vocal as he nears his peak, wordless cries ringing in the night air as Acatl bites at his shoulder. When he mouths a red mark into the thin skin at his collarbone, Teomitl nearly sobs. “Yes— _yes,_ gods, _Acatl—”_ Then he’s coming, hard and fast and all at once, spilling himself over their hands and bodies, and his voice cracks into a desperate keen.

It’s perfect. He’s still unfulfilled, but he almost doesn’t care. _Almost._ After a moment where Teomitl’s catching his breath and he thinks he might have to seek his own pleasure, his lover is grinning hot and hungrily down at him and oh _gods,_ now that he’s not distracted by what Acatl’s doing with him he proves _merciless._ He settles back on his haunches, freeing both hands to squeeze and stroke and pump Acatl’s throbbing flesh, and all Acatl can do is take it. “Nnnh, Teomitl, please…”

“That’s it,” Teomitl breathes, and if it wasn’t so awestruck it would be a royal order. It feels like a royal order, feels like the words of the gods themselves when he growls, “Come for me, Acatl-tzin.”

He does. He can’t do anything else. It’s shattering knife-edge pleasure that pulls all his thoughts out of his head; for a small eternity, he can’t even feel his own limbs, lost in the white-hot spasms of his own release. Awareness filters back in slowly; there’s Teomitl slowly petting his thighs, there’s his hands settling at his lover’s hips. And _there,_ shining in the darkness, is Teomitl’s tender gaze.

“...Duality,” he manages breathlessly. _I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank You. Thank You for this gift._

“We made a mess,” Teomitl murmurs—and then, with a downright wicked smirk, drags his fingers through it and slowly licks them clean.

Spent as he is, it still makes Acatl’s cock twitch. He has to close his eyes lest he do something that...well, something that seems like a very good idea, to be honest, but his body is letting him know he’d regret it later. He’s not that young anymore. _“Teomitl.”_

“You taste good.” It’s almost— _almost_ —innocent.

He draws in a shuddering breath. “I need to _recover,_ damn you. Give me a moment before you do things like that!”

“I just wanted to clean us up, but you’re right.” Teomitl kisses him again, slowly, and he can taste himself on his lips. “I won’t tease, love.”

 _Love._ He smiles at that, feeling his face warm. “You’d better not, after being so concerned about my sleep schedule.” It comes out as more of a mumble than anything else; he’s forgotten how _draining_ orgasms can be, especially on a full stomach after a long day. Sleep really is sounding very tempting.

“Mmm.” It’s a warm, utterly contented hum. Even when Teomitl pulls away to clean them both up properly with a cotton towel, he doesn’t go far; indeed, the cleanup itself is slow and tender and interspersed with long, gentle kisses.

Acatl responds as best he can, but he really is _very_ tired. When Teomitl slides his arms around him, it’s all he can do to nuzzle into his chest. “Mmhm.” He feels boneless. Weightless. Teomitl is stroking his hair, and he never wants it to stop. “Teomitl...”

Teomitl’s arms loosen. “I…” he begins.

He knows what Teomitl’s going to say— _I should go, I shouldn’t be here in the morning._ He knows he’s not going to let that happen. Not after the night they’ve shared; not after the _love_ they’ve shared. “Stay.”

Teomitl stays.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ship_to_hell/) or [tumblr](https://notapaladin.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
